


it's you that i adore

by miketozier (smallcuts)



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Underage Smoking, it's mostly just richie loving his friends and one (1) boy, mentions of drug use, mild violence but it isn't described explicitly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallcuts/pseuds/miketozier
Summary: A short catalogue of all the times Richie has said "I love you" to his friends and the one time he meant it.





	it's you that i adore

1.)

“I’d rather die than share my candy with you,” Stan states defiantly, puffing his chest out like the proud ten-year-old boy he is. His meticulously organized candy stash is spread out in front of him in accordance to color, and he keeps having to smack Richie’s snake ass hand away from it.

“Oh come on! Just one Kit Kat? I’ll even take a peppermint patty!” He whines, frustratedly glancing up at the bright blue sky.

Stan slowly unwraps a chocolate bar, establishes approximately three seconds of eye contact with Richie, and shoves the entire thing in his mouth. Bill snorts from where he’s perched in the tree above them, snapping pictures of the various pigeons he sees for Stan’s journal. So far, he’s only seen the generic grey ones that always crop up on sidewalks like the nuisances they are, but he made a promise to fill up at least two pages. A scoffing Richie sighs in disbelief, is it seriously that hard for Stan McStingy Uris to share some of his godforsaken halloween stash?

Stan pops a few Hershey’s kisses in his mouth, savoring it obnoxiously just to torment his poor friend. God, life is good, he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes until he feels something abnormally warm against his mouth, and he comes face to face with dewy brown freckles and pink-tinted cheeks he knows all too well.

Before he can fully register what is happening, Richie’s pulling away with three stolen kisses, two in the form of chocolate. ”Hm, that is pretty good if I do say so myself!”

Stan merely touches his tingling lips in pure unadulterated shock; Did he just lose his first kiss to the trashmouth of the group? Yes, he did. Why isn’t he absolutely disgusted beyond belief? What does this mean now? Richie does not exactly offer any answers.

Bill snaps a picture of the bug-eyed expression on Stan’s face and decides not to say anything when Richie swipes a few more chocolates for himself, stuffing them into the pockets of his oversized Hawaiian shirt. When the pictures develop later and they’re all at their respective houses, Bill scribbles a quick note on the bottom, reading, _‘the aftermath of stan’s first kiss!!!! thanks richinald trashmouth <3’ _

When Stan receives it tomorrow, he rolls his eyes but tapes it on the wall next to some of his other pictures. It finds a home right in between a picture depicting a snowball fight between Eddie and Bill, and a close-up of Richie’s dumb face contorted with a god-awful expression. It might just be one of his favorite photos to ever exist, not that Richie ever needs to know that.

 

* * *

 

2.)

One look at the sprawling purple bruise under smudged concealer Richie had half-heartedly applied to his cheek has Ben heaving a world-weary sigh, Mike not too far behind.

“What? Is there something wrong with my face?” Richie asks jokingly, although they all know the real reason for Ben and Mike’s worried touches. Mike rubs small circles into his shoulders while Ben carefully drags a disapproving thumb across his friend’s cheekbone. He tries not to shiver, but before he knows it, small tears collect along his waterline.

“Did your dad do this?” Ben whispers quietly, hand returning to his side.

“My mom, actually,” is all Richie manages to say before a heart-wrenchingly loud sob wrenches itself out of his throat. Mike quickly shushes him, enveloping him in secure arms while Ben struggles to hold back tears himself. His own mother always preaches that he’s too empathetic for his own good. He spares a watery glance down to his watch, signaling that they have about 20 minutes of their free period left before the next class.

“D-don’t say shit,” Richie says pathetically once he composes himself. His face is blotchy and red, and his bruise is a lot more visible, the concealer having trickled away along with most of Richie’s tears. Ben’s heart aches.

“I won’t. We should get you cleaned up, though,” He replies, looking to Mike for confirmation. Mike hoists Richie up so that he’s clinging to Mike like a baby koala would its mother, and the trio march off to the restroom. Ben texts Eddie on the way, knowing the other boy is in maths and is likely not paying too much attention to the teacher.

Eddie blows up his phone by the time they arrive at the bathroom, and within minutes, the smaller boy is sprinting towards him. Mike has Richie inside, and Ben doubts he would want Eddie to see him like this, so he starts spouting off some elaborate lies about Mike hurting his knee and needing to borrow his fanny pack for just one period, please?

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else? Isn’t Richie in your period? Where is he?” Eddie rapid-fires questions one after another, trying to peek into the open bathroom behind him. Ben blocks his view the best he can (a surprisingly easy feat given Eddie’s height) and continues to prattle on about Mike not needing visitors, and that he’s just fine and Ben has this under control, yes, he doesn’t need help.

Eddie reluctantly unclips his fanny pack from around his hips and lays it in a waiting Ben’s palm. “Just make sure you return it later, and when you see Richie, can you tell him to text me back? I must have sent like, a thousand messages by now! I miss him.” The smaller boy’s face turns a little red as he finishes the last sentence, and then he’s gone in a flurry of antiseptic smell and small waves goodbye.

Ben enters the restroom once Eddie rounds the corner, taking care to close the door and lock it. The sight of Richie curled up on the sink next to Mike calms Ben’s jumpy pulse down. He unzips the fanny pack, grabbing a few bandages and crafts a makeshift ice pack out of a jumble of wet paper towels.

“Did you tell Eddie?” Richie mumbles. His eyes close once Ben applies some pressure to the affected area.

“No,” replies Ben curtly, more focused on doting on Richie’s wound. He smiles lazily, signifying that the Richie the Losers club all knows and loves is back from the funk he had fallen into moments previous.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you, Haystack?” He grins while Ben nudges any remaining water droplets on his face off and applies two band-aids over the flowering bruise.

“You may have told me once or twice,” Ben says as soon as he’s done, giving his friend a once-over. Mike gives a double thumbs-up when he sees Richie’s face. With that, the pair of them hop off the sink so Richie can assess his reflection more thoroughly.

“I owe you guys one,” He murmurs, fingertips coming up to lightly graze his bandages. Turning around, he grins again at his friends and hooks arms with both of them. “I fucking love you both!”

“We know, Rich,” replies Mike, a fond smile on his face. Richie bends down to plant a sloppy kiss on Ben’s cheek first, then on Mike’s, cackling as Ben made a show of wiping his cheeks clear of Richie’s germs and emitting various gag noises.

 

* * *

 

3.)

As Beverly grows older, she finds herself becoming more and more dependent on cigarettes: the nicotine-laced addictive bastards. What was once a ten-minute smoke break every three days or so morphed into dipping behind the school every day, a pack of cigarettes clutched in her hands as she searched for a place devoid of security. She often missed a class every day, two if she was extra-stressed that particular day. Although Ben had expressed disappointment over it quite a few times, he allows her to carry on with her dangerous habit because he knows deep down that it might be the only relief she’ll ever receive from her dad.

A few days after her fourteenth birthday, her father pummels her hard enough to leave blood tangled in her long flaming orange locks, and she spends the next half hour angrily cutting off inch by inch of hair, just to feel free again.

Her first instinct is to phone Ben, but she chickens out at the last digit because she doesn’t quite feel like putting up with his pity today. She needs to wallow in her unfortunate life with someone, not hear advice she knows has good meaning to it, but ultimately won’t change anything. Beverly phones someone else instead, relieved when Richie picks up with an awful British impression.

Five minutes later, she’s sitting precariously on the dirty grey steps at the bottom of her apartment building, an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingertips. She hears Richie before she sees him because he just has that effect on everyone and couldn’t ever be quiet if his life depended on it.

“Well shit Ringwald, what inspired you to copy Eddie’s mom’s look? I’ll have you know she’s one of a kind,” quips Richie as he takes a seat next to her. She laughs at his poor joke but her heart’s not in it; Richie frowns at that. She lights her cigarette up and brings it up to her lips, taking a long and much-needed drag before exhaling.

“Life is kind of shitty, isn’t it?” Beverly says airily, passing the so-called cancer stick by Eddie to Richie.

“Yeah,” he replies once he exhales the smoke into the air around them. He has an overwhelming urge to start joking around, but his annoying banter is probably not what she needs right now, so he focuses instead on attempting to blow smoke rings. They finish the cigarette in relative silence and Beverly immediately lights another one, intent on smoking her problems away.

A calloused hand weaves into her blood-crusted orange hair, fiddling experimentally with the drastically shorter strands. “I’m no hair expert, but I’m pretty sure your hair isn’t supposed to have the same feel as your pubes,” he states while laughing, earning a smack on the arm from Beverly.

“Like you’d know anything about what pube hair feels like,” She rolls her eyes, stifling a genuine giggle at the sound of Richie’s offended gasp. She takes another drag, exhaling it right in Richie’s face. He sputters and coughs like a madman, shouting insults at her while she throws her head back and chortles wholeheartedly. Silence blankets them again, but it’s a good silence, and before she realizes it, five cigarette butts are littered at their feet and her heart feels a lot lighter than it had been a mere two hours ago.

“Thanks, Rich,” Beverly smiles as she stands up, extending a hand toward him. He takes it and rocks himself back on his feet.

“Anything for you, madame,” he answers with a bow and a horrid French accent that sounded like it was copied from Pepé Le Pew. He’s about to mount his bike and head over to Big Bill’s house for their impromptu tutoring session when Beverly tangles a hand in his dark curls and pecks his lips. It only lasts for a split second, and thankfully, Richie doesn’t appear to be too bothered by their kiss, if one could even call it that. He pulls her into a longer kiss, a simple and innocent press of mouth to mouth, before pulling apart.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” She smirks. Richie simply salutes her and pedals away to his next adventure, completely unaware of the pink lipstick stain she left on the corner of his mouth.

When Bill asks about it later, Richie draws a deft finger across his lips and his eyes widen at the leftover sticky residue. “It must’ve been Eddie’s mom, you know how—“

“Beep beep, Ruh-Richie,” Bill shakes his head in minute exasperation.

 

* * *

 

4.)

Eddie is rooted halfway in the world of chemistry and halfway in the realm of the memory of when Richie gave him a back massage earlier when a soft thumping at his window steals his attention away. He shuts his chem book with a dull thud and leaps off the bed, only to come face to face with the boy he was just thinking of. Frigid, wintry air comes tumbling in along with the object of his affection and he involuntarily shivers.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” He questions. He doesn’t receive an immediate answer, however, because another body somersaults into his open bedroom floor, and well. He’d recognize that red hair anywhere.

“Hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend, Eds,” Richie laughs far too loudly, leading Eddie to make urgent shushing noises as he double checks his locked door. His mother would throw a hissy fit if she found out he was hosting his _‘dirty, dirty friends’_ in his sterile room. Beverly spreads herself out on the floor, assuming a position akin to a starfish as she joins in on Richie’s giggle-fest.

“Okay, seriously, do you have any idea what time it is? What if you had gotten hurt, or what if—?” Eddie’s irritated rambling is cut off by a finger wagging itself in front of his mouth and Richie leaning in way too close for comfort. A few beads of sweat collect along his hairline as the bespectacled boy doesn’t appear to have any intention of moving back, and his well-fitted sleep shirt suddenly feels like it’s three sizes too small judging by how his heart was liable to pound through his chest at any given moment.

“Shhh,” Richie eventually stage whispers, and then he’s flopping onto the rug, halfway on Beverly’s small body. She lets out a loud _‘oomph’_ noise as Richie’s arm unintentionally smacks her across the stomach, but doesn’t make any move to escape from underneath him. Eddie’s mouth quirks in poorly disguised disapproval, although what it’s of, he’s not completely sure yet. He sits back down on his bed, feet barely nudging Richie’s back as the two of his friends lapse in and out of laughing uncontrollably and rolling around on the floor (and into each other).

Eddie’s stuck in a confused and slightly hurt stupor as Beverly starts trying to pull both her and Richie off the floor (while it is a valiant effort on her part, Richie’s gangly limbs prove to be far too heavy for liftoff) until he finally picks up on _it_ . _It_ being the faint scent of stale alcohol wafting in his room, lingering like an unwanted shadow as Richie lies face-down on his carpet and Beverly ends up cross-legged by Eddie’s bed post.

“Sorry for the intrusion — _hic_ — Eddie, he wanted to come here,” Bev apologizes in an eerily airy tone. His traitorous heart beats a little faster, but he tamps down that little strand of hope before it has a chance to flower because the boy on his floor is _drunk_ , and he’s Richie’s best friend, of course he’s gonna default to inviting himself to Eddie’s house. It’s not as if he hasn’t done it a million times before.

“It’s… fine.” Eddie chokes out, his voice possibly laced with more distress than intended. If Beverly notices, she doesn’t say anything. They sit in amicable silence, and although Eddie wants to puncture it, he’s never been that close to Beverly. She may be the star of the group, with Ben, Bill, and begrudgingly, Richie, trailing after her but he has never taken the time out of his day to hang out with her one-on-one. She has the same aura as Mike though, wherein with a single touch, they’ll make you want to spill your guts out.

That’s why his internal dam crashes in on itself once the sound of Richie’s quiet snoring fills the room with unusual white noise, and Beverly’s giving him _that_ look.

“What?” He asks defensively once he feels like he’s been laid bare under her scrutinizing bluebell eyes. She shakes her head, an overall blindingly white smile peeking through her red lips.

“You’ve been staring at Richie for a long time, don’t you think?” Beverly inquires innocently. It’s agonizingly vague, but he knows she means it both in present and past tense. Eddie’s also completely unable to lie to Bev. No one can.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the soft look of pity his friend is undoubtedly casting upon him. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand is placed on his knee, eyes flying open in shock.

“You should tell him,” she encourages warmly. Eddie thanks God that it’s darker than midnight in his bedroom, the only visible light being the few pale beams of moonlight shining through the sheer veil of his curtain. Otherwise, he’s sure Beverly would be able to see the red flush high on his cheekbones, and he’s sure he’d get teased for it because the mere idea of Richie making someone like Eddie flustered? Unbelievable.

“Why would I?” Eddie replies with a bone-weary sigh. He wants his relatively newfound admiration for Richie to remain deep inside the crevices of his mind, much like everything else he’s repressed about himself. If he can’t see it, it isn’t there. Beverly seems surprised at his reaction, judging from the way her hand wavers.

“Because— well, you never know, right?” She says, eyes glittering with good-natured mischief. There’s a possibility she stumbled upon all of the mixtapes Richie’s made for Eddie, kept hidden neatly in an unlabeled box underneath his bed. One of them had Richie’s chicken scratch on it — ‘ _for my spaghetti head’_ — and when Beverly took it and listened to it later, the tracklist had turned out to be _Africa_ by Toto looped 10 times.

“He doesn’t—“ Eddie cuts himself off at a particularly loud snuffle from Richie on the floor. Petrified, he waits for Richie to get up, reveal that he was actually listening this entire time, and clamber out his window never to be seen again by any of the losers, and then Eddie would have to fucking kill himself because how could he ever—

“Breathe, Eddie,” Beverly speaks in a soothing tone, successfully roping Eddie back down to Earth. It’s only now that he realizes his pulse is absolutely hammering and he’s begun to sweat despite it being about 63°F degrees in his room. He fumbles for his inhaler, desperate to feel air in his lungs again until he remembers that he doesn’t actually need it. _‘He’s delicate’_ , his mother’s words ring softly in his head as he focuses on Beverly. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, it’s okay.’ Eddie replies and leaves it at that. Silence creeps in on them again for a blessed ten minutes, in which Beverly phases in and out of sleepiness and Eddie remains hyper-aware of the boy passed out on his floor until said boy drowses awake.

“Where am I?” Richie mumbles to himself, damn-near giving Eddie another heart attack. It’s too late in the night to be dealing with such stress, muses Eddie. Then again, every moment spent near Richie almost always results in elevated stress levels, for better or for worse.

“You tell me, dingus,” says Eddie. Richie shrugs, picking himself up off the ground and flinging onto the other boy’s bed, landing face first on Beverly’s thigh.

“Too sleepy,” he mutters. Beverly smiles softly at him, petting him delicately as though he was a wounded animal, leading Eddie to think he’s third wheeling in his own house again. She gives Eddie a sly look as she scoops the upper half of Richie’s body in her arms and deposits him on the other boy’s lap.

 _‘Have fun,’_ she mouths as she lets herself out through Eddie’s window, disappearing into the night as quickly as she had appeared. Richie’s slow breathing puffs against his thighs, and he’d likely be much more flustered if he wasn’t enjoying this so much and Richie actually knew what he was doing. Fuck, he was _disgusting_.

He makes himself as comfortable as he’s gonna get against the wall because he just doesn’t have the heart or mental willpower to banish Richie from his lap, and truthfully, a shameful, _shameful_ part of him is still enjoying having Richie close to him like this. Eddie’s about to drift off to a dreamless sleep when he hears a minute, barely audible _‘love you,’_ drawled into the silence of his room.

Eddie doubts it’s directed at him because nothing as heavily emotional as those two little words are ever said to him in a serious manner, but that does nothing to stop his heart from picking up speed, just the tiniest bit. “Good night,” he whispers, in case the other boy is actually awake ( _‘But if he were, he would have moved away,’_ helpfully supplies Eddie’s mind).

When he wakes up, Richie is, as per status quo, nowhere to be seen but there is a small thank you note taped to his desk and a melted Hershey’s kiss on top of it.

 

* * *

 

5.)

“S-So you’re telling me th-that you have a crush on Eddie, b-b-basically?” Bill asks, cross-legged on his living room floor. Richie rubs his arm sheepishly, unsure of whether or not to fess up completely or not. Stan peers at them curiously from where he’s perched on Bill’s couch, claiming earlier that, _‘he didn’t want to gossip about Richie’s sad love life’_ , but he’s been staring at the same sketchbook page for ten minutes.

“Well… yeah. But he doesn’t feel the same, you know?” Richie finally spits out after an awkward few moments of silence, thankful that he was able to keep his voice from wavering.

“W-What makes you think th-that?” Bill frowns at the self-deprecation in his friend’s voice, and makes a small mental note to bring that up in the A.M. hours, when Richie’s walls were down and he was much more likely to come clean about the troubles the world’s been placing upon his shoulders in the form of drunk parents and Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Nothing just…” He cuts himself off mid-reply, unable to meet either of his friends’ eyes. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a shaking palm makes contact with his shoulder, and he looks up to meet the stern gaze of Stan.

“We’re here for you,” Stan says levelly, finally joining their little feelings sesh on the floor, sketchbook left open and forgotten. Bill nods vigorously, encouraging Richie to follow through on what he needs to say. The pressure building behind his eyes subsides with a few rapid blinks behind a mess of shaggy black hair, and he hones in on the comforting touch of Bill’s knee against his own, and the soft skin of Stan’s hands trailing up and down his forearm.

“I think I might be in love with him actually,” admits Richie in the world’s smallest voice. Bill’s knee knocks comfortingly against his own.

“Then w-why won’t you t-tell him?” Bill tries asking again, genuine confusion written on his face. The losers have all seen how Eddie looks at Richie, particularly when he gets too handsy with Bev, or Mike, or even Stan for that matter. Bill knows firsthand; He’s in the exact same situation as Richie, after all. That’s a story for another time, and Bill never was that good of a storyteller. Stan’s chiming in with his own two cents on the whole Richie-and-Eddie dilemma, all the while letting Richie move close enough to sink his head into his chest.

They’re naturally affectionate. Bill supposes it stems from innocent childhood friendship, and perhaps also the concept of personal space never failing to be a decidedly foreign policy to Richie. All he can do is listen silently as Stan painstakingly drags out some receipts from the depths of his memories, like when Eddie and Stan had walked in on Richie and Beverly shotgunning, or when it was Eddie’s turn to pick a restaurant and he picked Richie’s favorite one, despite him complaining on numerous occasions that there were far too many germs making a home there.

When Stan finishes, there’s a twinkle in Richie’s eye that hadn’t been there previously, and his posture is noticeably more relaxed. “You ok?” Bill pipes up, causing the duo to look at him. Richie pauses, but with the encouragement from Stan and the embarrassingly trusting aura Bill always has radiating from him, he nods.

“I think I’m gonna confess.” Richie states, then says it again for emphasis and to reassure himself that it’s totally happening, he’s going to _confess_. Stan and Bill are nodding approvingly, the latter giving him two thumbs up and a toothy, supportive grin, and Richie makes a decision. He has never been the quiet type, but something about Eddie perpetually has his palms shaking and words stuttering in his throat.

“I’m gonna go do it _right the fuck now_ ,” exclaims Richie, abruptly jumping to his feet. Stan and Bill startle, only for a brief moment as they look up to meet the determined fire burning in Richie’s eyes.

“W-well good luck,” Bill says flatly. What else could he say? He hadn’t expected Richie to ditch their sleepover so unexpectedly, but a part of him might be a little grateful for his absence. Just a teensy-tiny, barely existent part of him.

“Thanks! I love you guys, see you!” Richie bends down quickly to hook his arms around the both of their shoulders, knocking their skulls together unintentionally. “Oops, sorry.”

“Bye, Rich,” Stan calls as his friend hauls ass out the front door, a spring in his step that he’d never seen before. Love just makes you adopt those sort of things, he supposes. He eyes a bewildered Bill from the corner of his eye, and it takes about ten seconds before the duo burst out laughing.

“God, Richie and Eddie are so dumb,” Stan giggles, shaking his head.

“I hope we don’t end up like that,” solemnly states Bill. It takes a few agonizingly long seconds for his brain to catch up with his mouth and _oh shit-_.

“Huh?”

 

* * *

 

6.)

 _Okay, you can do this Richie, just. Just fucking do it._ So far, Richie’s pep talk to himself hasn’t been helping. His entire being still feels as if it’s frayed by nerves, and he gets progressively sicker to his stomach the closer he rounds in on Eddie’s house. He _promised_ himself _and_ Bill _and_ Stan that he wouldn’t back out of his upcoming confession, but the fear of rejection is enough to make him firmly plant himself quite a bit of ways away from Eddie’s house.

The tree he’s standing beside provides great support as he slides down slowly to meet the sun-cracked pavement beneath him, heart pounding dully in his chest. _‘I could do this… I can do this,’_ runs through his mind like a broken record on repeat. Despite his constant reassurance, he can’t help but expect the worst.

The best case scenario, as far as Richie is concerned, is that Eddie lets him down as gently as he can (meaning only a good minute of yelling as opposed to several minutes of yelling) and starts gradually avoiding him over time, but it’s okay because Richie knows what it’s like to be abandoned and-.

Well, the worst case scenario is that Eddie screams at him for upwards of five minutes and banishes him from the premises, then manages to turn the entirety of the Loser’s Club against him. It’s unlikely because Eddie isn’t that manipulative of a person, but it always helps to be prepared, at least in his experience. He stays under the comforting shade of the tree for several moments, garnering quite a few strange looks from the neighbors, but he’s far too preoccupied with calming his stray thoughts down to even notice.

Once Richie feels like he’s sufficiently prepared for all of the worst case scenarios he’s built up, he gets up and dusts the back of his pants off. Determination settles in his chest before insecurity can get the better of him again, and before he knows it, he has a fist raised to Eddie’s door, and he’s knocking.

_‘Oh God oh sweet fucking Jesus I can’t do this holy shit what the hell was I thinking oh my-’_

“Hey Rich,” greets Eddie softly. He’s in the soft yellow sweater Bill got him for his birthday last year and the rainbow shorts that drive Richie fucking _wild_. He peers at Richie with a questioning grin on his face, probably wondering what kind of nonsense Richie was going to drag him into this time. “You can come inside. My mom isn’t home.”

“Is it okay if I stay right here actually? I want to... I have some very, _very_ important shit to say, my dear Eds!” Richie’s voice devolves into the British voice he performs occasionally for his friends, voice cracking in nerves. Eddie giggles, one of those forced nervous ones, and it only serves to butcher Richie’s confidence even more.

_‘Here goes.’_

“So… you gotta promise not to hate me or anything, or I guess I won’t actually make you promise because it’s your choice whether you want to remain friends with me after this or not. I really doubt it though, because boy howdy fuck have I got some shit to unload, like really big shit, the kind that-”

“Richie. I’m not going to hate you, just say it,” says Eddie. Eddie doesn’t want to give into false hopes or anything, but if what Richie is saying what he _thinks_ he’s saying, he doesn’t want to wait too long. His fingers and toes curl in anticipation, and he hopes Richie can’t read the excitement he’s sure is stenciled on his face plain as day.

“So umm… I’m basically in love with you. Yeah.” There’s a stagnant pause, wherein Richie expects Eddie to start screaming at him any minute now, and Eddie can’t believe his ears. He’d been hoping, _dreaming_ of a moment like this, and now that it’s actually happened, Eddie doesn’t know what to do. Does he just… kiss him? Or hug him? “Right. Yep. I’m just gonna go home and pretend none of this happened. Don’t hate me.” Richie shoves his hands in his pockets far too aggressively for Eddie’s liking and stalks his way off Eddie’s porch. If there were small tears pooling in his eyes, he definitely wouldn’t admit to it.

Eddie blinks in astonishment. He proceeds to run after the other boy like hell is at his heels, hand grasping at Richie’s shoulder. It makes the both of them lurch in place, but Eddie’s iron grip on Richie prevents them from falling to the unforgiving ground. “I’m basically in love with you too, Richie,” breathes Eddie softly. He doesn’t think Richie actually heard him until the taller boy spins around, making him nearly stumble to the ground again.

“What?”

“I said I love you too, idiot,” Eddie smiles. He grows steadily uneasy after Richie looks at him like his feelings are dumb, like _he’s_ dumb. “Please say something...”

“Um,” Richie starts intelligently and shakes his head, eyes quickly averting to the ground. “I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“You… thought I’d hate you forever? Is that why you kept bringing it up?” Eddie asks, bringing a hand back up to his friend(?)’s shoulder. He knew Richie had self-esteem issues (who didn’t at this point in their lives?) but he didn’t think Richie would be one to assume Eddie would just drop _countless_ years of friendship for something as unavoidable as feelings.

“No. I just… wow,” Richie sighs. Eddie didn’t realize he had the power to make Richie Tozier speechless, but recently he hasn’t been realizing a lot of things. Words seem to fall a little too flat between the two of them, so Eddie leans up on his tippy-toes and captures Richie’s lips in an admittedly awkward and off-centered kiss. He doubts it’s Richie’s first kiss, but it’s _his_ first kiss, and even though it’s been tainted by the awkward messiness of teenage love confessions, he can’t think of any other way he’d rather have it.

“I really do adore you,” Richie mumbles lowly against his lips like Eddie wasn’t supposed to hear him even though they’re one centimeter apart. The sun is in its beginning stage of setting behind him, and it makes the world appear softer around the edges, just like how the two boys are feeling right now.

“Yeah, me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> this got out of hand soooo quickly omg
> 
> anyways this was supposed to be published in late october but i never got around to writing the ending scene + i got sidetracked with school so here it is two months late! 5k words of pure word vomit tbh :^)


End file.
